


preaching from the pulpit to cries of amen brother

by la_victorienne



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, pre-jossing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written pre-season finale. </p>
<p>Stiles is a lot more hurt than he lets on. Derek finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	preaching from the pulpit to cries of amen brother

            After everything is over, after everyone is done fighting battles they’re all too young for, Allison and Erica and Scott and Boyd and Isaac and Derek and Christ, Stiles’ _dad_ , and Jackson and Lydia and—the list goes on, he can’t even think of all of them, after everything is over and the battle is won, (even if not the war), the only thing Stiles wants to do is go home, and take a shower. He aches all over, has bruises he’s not even sure he wants to find on his body, and some twisted part of him is looking forward to turning the water on until it’s scalding and throwing himself under the spray, letting the rhythmic pounding lessen a little of the beating his all-too-human body has already taken.

            He has to hug Scott some more and bro-nod at Derek from afar and kiss Lydia on the cheek, no hard feelings, he’s too tired to be heartbroken. He has to hang on while his dad tries manfully not to snuffle-cry in his ear, has to lead the cruiser all the way home “just in case, you might be in shock, Stiles, listen to me,” has to officially okay shitty takeout for dinner. There’s so much to do before he’s alone, but it’s worth it—worth it for the way the steam fills the bathroom so quickly he can’t even see himself in the mirror as he undresses, worth it for the way his skin turns pink, then red, worth it for the way the sound of the water drowns him out of his own stupid head. He’s in there for almost an hour, standing under the spray with his eyes closed, half-heartedly swiping the dirt from under his fingernails. It feels _unbelievable_. It feels the way he imagines sex with another person feels like, warm and intimate and just shy of painful.

            He recognizes this may say something about the kind of sex he plans on eventually having. In the slick, wet heat of the shower, he can’t bring himself to care.

            There’s a towel on the towel warmer, big and warm and fluffy, which means his dad has probably come home with the food, dropped the towel on the warmer, and left the bathroom all without him noticing. He feels vaguely robbed—he wasn’t even jerking off to get caught at—and then slightly terrified that his reflexes are being used up, which isn’t a good sign what with all of the _supernatural shit trying to eat him_.

            He might be a little in shock. It’s not something he’s ashamed of.

            The bigger shock comes when he opens the bathroom door, and Derek Hale is standing there looking murderous.

            “Gah! Jesus Christ, creeper wolf, what are you doing here?” He punches ineffectually at Derek’s shoulders, still holding onto the towel around his waist with his other hand. “Get—get out, move, at least get in the bedroom where my dad can’t find you.”

            “The sheriff knows I’m here,” Derek says, but moves aside, still scowling, and follows him into his bedroom. “He offered me moo goo gai pan. I don’t think he knows about me.”

            “Of course he doesn’t know. All he knows is that we had each other’s backs, tonight, and that you brought me home. Something I’m grateful for, by the way, although I don’t see why it necessitates that you lurk outside the bathroom door while I’m in the shower. Which—why were you doing that, exactly? I thought we’d acknowledged each other in an acceptably broody way for you, and we could go on to pretending we don’t know each other except for when we need each other’s help. And by each other I obviously mean when you need my help, with the odd exception of when I need you to rescue me, like tonight.” He’s rummaging through his drawers for clean underwear while he talks, so he doesn’t realize Derek is staring at the huge bruise on his left side until he turns around, towel still clutched in his other hand. “Dude. What. It’s just a bruise. I’ve got more, check it out.” There’s one on his chest, above his heart, one on his upper thigh, a knot on the back of his calf, not to mention the scrape on his cheek and lip. Derek, though, Derek looks _stricken_ , like he’s the one who’s in agonizing pain. “Seriously, Derek, what’s the—what’s the matter? What are you—oh, okay, that’s not weird at all.”

            Derek’s on his knees in front of Stiles, his face pressed into the bruise on Stiles’ side, and he’s snuffling, hands pressing tight into Stiles’ hipbones, mouth moving over Stiles’ skin. It is quickly becoming a serious problem. Stiles jerks away, yelping, but Derek presses back in, fingers squeezing and releasing, little abortive movements like he’s keeping himself from something, and doesn’t that just send Stiles’ brain into the spinner.

            “Derek, dude, what—I don’t get it, I—”

            “Shut up, Stiles,” Derek mumbles, actually _mumbles_ , into Stiles’ hip, hot breath making the problem in Stiles’ towel rapidly worse. And for god’s sake, is this really the night he has to have a big gay revelation with Derek-cheekbones-of-steel-Hale inches away from accidentally rubbing him off through the terrycloth? Of all nights in the world, did it have to be this one?

            “Can’t shut up, Derek, you’re making me a little uncomfortable,” he says, voice inching up in pitch as he goes. “Seriously, you are venturing into serious special hell territory, and I’m not sure that’s even what you meant to do, I don’t know what’s going on with this whole touching thing for you anyway, it’s just a few bruises, what in the—oh, shit!”

            Derek has pulled on the backs of his knees, sending him crashing to the floor. “I said shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, breathing a lot closer to Stiles’ neck than he was a few seconds ago, and oh, does he sound _wrecked_.

            “Derek?” Stiles asks, his voice trembling, Derek’s body settling on top of his, in the middle of his floor.

            “ _Hush_ ,” Derek whispers, and then Stiles can’t talk any more anyway, because Derek’s mouth is on his, and they’re kissing, and it’s perfect, fuck the cut on his mouth, and no, _this_ is what he wanted to do when he got home, fuck showers, who needs showers, he’s kissing a werewolf who lives in the _woods_.

            Derek kisses like a dying man, gasping for breath, making these strange, sad little sounds into Stiles’ mouth, as if it’s somehow still not enough. Not that Stiles would complain, if there were more, this is great, and all, of course, but oh god, Derek is on top of him and Derek is hard and there is _only a towel in between them_ , come on, what is Stiles expected to do with that except arch up and beg for more? He’s panting too, little whimpers of _please_ and _Derek_ between the kisses, his hands flailing somewhere above them until they land on Derek’s shoulders, and fuck, _fuck_ , is this really his life?

            “Derek, are you serious? What the fuck, why—why now,” he pants out, once Derek has moved from his mouth down to his neck, licking and biting and marking, snuffling as he goes.

            “Because you got hurt,” Derek mumbles into the curve of his neck. “Because it was my fault. Because I thought you were _gone_ ,” and Stiles can’t help but cry out and dig his fingers into Derek’s back, sharp and painful.

            “But I’m not, Derek, I’m here, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, okay, but I have to—we have to—my dad is downstairs, Derek, just downstairs—Derek, please, you have to stop—”

            Just like that, Derek’s weight is gone, and Stiles is almost afraid he’s jumped out the window again. But no, he’s just backed up against the wall, a look on his face Stiles has never seen before, like a terrified stray dog, convinced he’s going to be kicked to the curb. Stiles stands up with a wince, one hand up, the other hand still clutching his towel in a death grip. “Hey, that’s—I just meant for now. We can go back to—to that later, after I’ve eaten and my dad thinks you’re gone. I’m not saying stop forever, Derek, just—just for now. Is that okay?” He’s been stepping closer with every word, and when his outstretched hand touches Derek’s face, Derek just _melts_ , nosing into Stiles’ hand and rumbling deep in the back of his throat.

            “Okay,” he finally says. “Get dressed. I’ll go downstairs.”

            “You could stay,” Stiles offers.

            “If I stay, I won’t stop,” Derek growls. “Get dressed, Stiles.”

            And—yeah, okay, that’s a plan. He presses up, drawing Derek’s face down for another kiss, and releases. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

            Derek exhales hard and disappears. Stiles tries (and fails) not to watch him adjusting his pants as he leaves. _Fuck_.

            This is only the beginning. 


End file.
